


Lionel Sees

by scorpiris



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Rift What Rift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiris/pseuds/scorpiris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>things change, remains the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The party is a success, a high note on Metropolis's summer agenda. Outside the ballroom is a city cocooned in an uncharacteristic heat, wrapped in a night of no breeze. Perfect timing. Lionel mingles, accepting handshakes from his supplicants, enjoying how the others sweat a little bit more. And perhaps there's also a dash of fear under rose-scented makeup, rare flower perfumes, and overpriced aftershaves. It gladdens him to see how human they are.

He watches his son working the crowd, glad-handling princes and senators, canapé servers and countesses equally. Cool despite the heat, unaffected despite everything else. Expertly bringing the masses to heel. Whatever deal that doesn't come Lionel's way will go to Lex. After the last guest has been ushered out into the twilight, the two of them will retire to the drawing room and draw up battle plans. They will ride the adrenaline until dawn, then greet it with a vengeance.

Everything is going to plan. Lionel feels invincible, even the Fates dare not thwart his perfect night. Perfect in every way.

Well, except for one pesky detail.

Enter stage right, a dark-haired whelp. To date, Lex's only weakness that Lionel cannot seem to excise despite all his considerable efforts. Lionel has to hand it to Lex on that front, though. Other men would have capitulated, surrendered a long time ago. Lesser men would have been dead. Have died.

He smiles and shakes the hand of a woman he vaguely recognizes as a White House policy advisor, should be important except she's already on her way out of her office and into some do-gooding tent in a remote island somewhere. Lionel leaves her to his date--the Scandinavian girl from his secretarial pool with at least half a brain under all those hair bleach. She'll tell him if there's anything important. He doesn't think so.

He shakes three more hands, none of note, before moving his sights back to his son and that Kent boy, who are making their way towards his general direction. A few more people--handshakes here, airkisses there--and they materialize in front of him.

"Dad," Lex's voice cuts through the din of the room. "See you tomorrow."

Lionel aborts his nod of acknowledgment, does not alter his stance, pretends not to hear. As exits go, this is rather polite. As polite as Lex can manage with his left hand wrapped insistently around Clark's right wrist.

"Thank you, Mr. Luthor," Clark calls before he disappears out of earshot. It's no secret that there's no love lost between the Kents and the Luthors. But he suspects that Martha's child will never forget his pleases and thankyous even at world's end.

* * *

 

The hotel keeps the penthouse unoccupied all the time, all two floors at the very top. It stays empty most of the time, but the staff cleans it everyday just in case. Reserved for a Luthor for as long as one still lives, for when they can't be bothered to drive to their Tower penthouses. At the moment only those by the name of Lex and Lionel. The rest of the affluent world gets the suites below, except Lucas Luthor who will be turned away, politely, at the entrance.

Considering the speed of their exit, Lionel thinks that Lex will be abusing the hotel's hospitality this night. No one with eyes can't blame him. The Kent boy scrubs well enough when sufficiently motivated. The years away from Smallville has slowly stripped him of his charming, yet ultimately useless, village sensibilities. And this evening, he can see Lex's tutelage and money paying off in a big way.

Stepping out of the elevator onto the penthouse's reception room, Lionel stumbles over a discarded shoe that looks like a capsized black barge shined to a reflective sheen. Further down, a wreckage of bowties and shirts.

There are whispers from the master bedroom. Lionel smiles. He wonders whether the Kent boy has also shed his overly modest turns. He doubts it. He supposes it is part of the things that endears the boy to Lex. His son always has a soft spot for strays and innocents, especially innocents that look like they tempt saints as sport.

The carpet feels extra thick today, fluffed up and perfectly set up to muffle his footsteps. Another shoe, more of Lex's size and preferred quality this time, which he manages to avoid.

The mutters become louder as he nears the door. He could probably hear some gasping and some moaning. He pushes the door wide open with a single flourish.

* * *

 

Various articles of clothing discarded carelessly. Some hanging helplessly off the clothes butler, a dress pant leg barely made it onto the trouser press.

There's a dying man on television, heaving and gasping on the lap of a beautifully disheveled heroine, pyrotechnics going off artfully around them.

Sheets pushed almost off the bed.

Two figures curled around each other, soundly asleep.

 

* * *

 

Lionel can't remember the last time he walked in on a sleeping son. He has walked in on debaucheries, orgies, even the odd "renewing the marital act" bit. He has walked in on deliriums, nightmares, insomniac stupor, forced recuperation and catatonia. But he sincerely can't remember the last time he walked into a bedroom where Lex is just asleep. Peacefully asleep in a room with no trace of stale sweat and sex in the air.

He makes his way deeper into the room, the television offers scant illumination. Dark otherwise. He ambles his way through, always careful. Steps on a crisp piece of paper and wonders whether his son has grown careless. He picks it up. Words materialize as his eyes adjust. A thesis proposal form, still empty except for the name and class. The Kent boy. Almost a postgraduate student. MIT. Lionel is almost impressed, until he remembers what Lex's kind of money can buy.

He drops the paper, picks up one end of the discarded bedsheets. Finds an open laptop. Late model, lightweight, powerful. He retrieves it and a slight jostle reveals an unprotected screen. A document filled with diagrams, tabs neatly at the top and bottom of the screen. He places it on a bureau, the closest flat surface that isn't a floor. Cycles through several tabs to see more diagrams and 3D designs. One tab yields a list of themes and ideas. Fleetingly he notes fusion, propulsion, electron-splicing, neural regeneration.

The laptop rests over many pieces of paper spread all across the bureau, notes that correspond to those digital files he's reading. Several versions of thesis proposals, some half-baked, a couple he might steal, none coherent enough, but all held promise. So many of them, Lionel is tempted to wake the boy up and tell him to choose one and stick with it. The Kent boy, he muses again, not just a pretty face it seems.

He straightens the papers a little, closes the laptop, feels the computer go to sleep. He returns to the sleeping forms, this time pulling the sheet around them both. He stares at his son's profile, then shocks himself seeing how his son has grown. Changed. Peripherally he knows Lex is no longer the liability he once seemed to be. Even now, successful in making considerable in-roads into everything he puts his mind into. How does he miss this? A few more years, Lionel might not have LuthorCorp anymore. Lionel catches himself, maybe he's exaggerating.

Lex's breathing is long and deep, measured, paced yet unguarded. Suddenly, Lionel doesn't think he is exaggerating. He shifts forward a fraction, looks at the Kent boy now. Properly this time. Curled around Lex, strong, steady, and yet so young still. A certain chill wash over him. He looks back at his son. Who no longer seems to need anything from him. Who no longer seems to look for his approval, his direction.

His son has chosen his own path, his own destiny. Lex somehow sees something Lionel has failed to see. He doesn't like this realization, being caught unawares. It tastes bitter and dry. He struggles to clamp down a growing hysteria. How can he fail to notice this?

The bed shifts a little. Lex shifts, stretches, and settles around Clark. As though trying to shield Clark from something. The world, maybe. Lionel Luthor, instinctually. Lex the protector. Kent the white knight. They are for each other. And Lionel feels a nostalgic regret. Wonders, for the first time in over a decade, what it would be like to still have Lilian standing beside him.

Just like this. Looking down at their son. No longer a child.

If he close his eyes, he might be able to imagine reaching out to cool fingers, rounded shoulders, lilies of the valley. He might be able to imagine a slow smile of contentment.

But he doesn't. Dares not. So instead he tucks the sheet closely around the two, the way Lilian would have done on nights like this. Brushes a fleeting finger on each brow. He likes to think he's giving them a blessing. But he knows they won't need it. Might never need it. Will never seek it from him.

He steps back and manages to trample on a thing. The television flickers out suddenly, no more blue-red light dancing in the dark. He turns around. A few steps and he is back into the light. He crosses the living room, the elevator door still open.

He flips the light switch, finds sudden darkness a familiar ally. The elevator a lone box of light. He steps in, and is a little bit surprised that he doesn't feel any different.  
\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On being pedestrian. 
> 
> (suddenly this thing turns crack-ficcy)

Contrary to popular belief, Lionel Luthor is not so conceited as to think that he will live forever. Perhaps, and even more so than anyone else, he appreciates the hold of mortality, the promise of finiteness. He likes to think that it is because of this understanding that he is able to drive himself and others to greater heights. Only one who embraces the endgame can fathom the need of leaving a lasting legacy.

Every person wants to leave a mark in the world--parents in their children, teachers in the memories of their students, politicians, kings and Nobel laureates. Ever since he can remember, Lionel Luthor has made it his sole desire to leave a mark in the annals of time; it is possibly his only hubris. Obscurity is not an option, never an option.

Sometimes he imagines himself dying in various ways, each scenario grander and more memorable in turn. Perhaps heroically dying under the watchful, awed eye of the world's press, sometimes just something out of a romantic tragicomedy that is no less preposterous and could probably spawn a few dozen movie franchises. He sometimes dreamed of dying in a blaze of glory. And more than once a dream of being hemlock-and-daggered out of this world by his own son. Nothing speaks like history and legend like patricide--the best Greek epics are made of it.

Other times, he dreamed of passing away on the night of a new corporate conquest, dying after a job well-executed. A well-earned death. Or, his liver might finally give way, and he will have died as he has lived, fearless and unapologetic. He might probably die in the height of ecstasy, and be remembered for his evergreen virility and strength, burning with unquenchable passion. Or maybe he might just slip quietly into the night, a serene smile on his face, a perfect coda to his unstoppable life.

He has never, however, dreamed or even thought of dying this way: pure stupidity with no one to blame but himself. Of dying due to the foolishness of not looking both ways before crossing. He has conquered boardrooms, donated tax-deductible billions to charities and museums. He will have statues and plaques erected in his memory, and stories of his acumen will feature as case studies in graduate schools in the same breath as Sun Tzu. But as pigeons fly overhead, he fears that he might be remembered as that hairy billionaire who steps from behind a parked garbage truck into oncoming traffic, a perfectly serviceable pedestrian crossing just a couple of paces away.

* * *

 

Lionel knows he has lost a handful of days to injury and medication. His first lucid moment is greeted by his son's mirthfully smirking face. Already the yellow press are having too much fun with his demise. Lex shows him the 72-point headline asking "Why did the Billionaire Cross the Road? Investigators Rule Out Foul Play".

"Is that true?" he manages to ask.

"For once, it's not anybody wanting to off a Luthor, hard though it is to believe."

"Are you sure?"

"He didn't even hit you all that hard. It was just bad luck that you twisted the wrong foot, fell the wrong way, injured yourself in the most spectacular way." Lex says, casually studying the medical chart at the foot of the bed, frowning at a particularly indecipherable scrawl of words across the page. "Anyway," Lex replaces the chart by the bed, crosses the short distance towards the window."Not like we can ask him, since he's dead now, wrapped around a tree trying to avoid killing you, it seems. Legal and PR are knee deep trying to cover every angle, make sure his family won't be haranguing us for revenge or money." A pause. "Guy's a nephew of Gary Spencer." Oh. Only one of the most hard-assed lawyers in America. Only a lawyer who has never lost a case in his fifty-year career. Who at the ripe of of eighty five can still flay LuthorCorp to pieces in any court given sufficient motivation. Not that the old man will come out of retirement, but Lionel figures it's not wise to push his luck.

"There are probably a million CCTVs capturing the incident." Really, Metropolis has turned into a surveillance society; it's very annoying. There's something in Lex's voice that hints at a future series of public service advertising being made about the perils of jaywalking, with Lionel Luthor in a starring role. He imagines it being broadcast again and again and again--in-between Superbowl hotdog runs, sandwiched between Old Spice and GMC Motors commercials. He imagines seeing himself on one of the hundreds of AirportTV sets while surrounded by anxious fliers await their red-eye connections. CCTV-mined footage of his demise might resurface one day, in boisterous elementary school classrooms delivered by harried community traffic wardens as an object lesson of safe pedestrian practices.

Suddenly he feels very tired, the wound of his pride is probably more painful than these broken bones and blinding pain. "I'll rest now if it's all the same to you."

Lex's reply is swallowed by the sound of a sharp creak of rusty hinges. "Lex!" an exaggerated whisper.

His son turns around and he watches tension bleed slowly away from Lex's rigid posture. "Clark." Lex's enunciation on the Kent's boy name is the only invitation needed. The door creaks a little more and reveals a boy who is so intent on Lex that he doesn't seem to take notice of the actual patient in the room. Either that or the boy just doesn't care, as he strides straight towards Lex by the window. A quick brush of cheek to cheek. "I came as soon as I could," a low whisper which made Lex chuckle with mirth dancing in his eyes.

"Bet you did," Lex gives a veritable leer. "Naughty boy, it's not even six yet." To which the Kent boy blushed prettily.

"Har har," Clark mock pouted. "Everything's innuendo with you, Lex." A peck on the other cheek, the boy straightened up fractionally to lean against the nearest wall. "I left as soon as I was able." A pause. "How's he?"

"Better than expected," Lex replies, intently studying their reflections in the mirror before finally turning around. The Kent boy turns around as well, looking a little surprised to find out that the real patient is present and accounted for.

"Oh Mr. Luthor," Clark adds belatedly.

"Well, say goodbye to Mr. Luthor, Clark," Lex says mirthfully. "We have a reservation." Lex doesn't wait, just steps around the bed towards the door. "Bye, dad."

* * *

 

A male nurse comes in to check, offers more medication 'to manage the pain' which Lionel declines. He has some thinking to do, and pain helps him to focus. His physician follows a moment later. He answers the questions in short answers, then makes them leave the curtains open. They leave quietly, he watches the sun set. He notices the newspaper by his right thigh, moves his leg and nudges it off the bed. Something sharp shoots up his spine and knocks the wind out of him.

He lies huffing, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow can't come soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to recovery is paved with good intentions.

He remembers the first time he laid eyes on the Kent boy as though it was yesterday. Or rather, the emotions he had felt at that time. Not so much the visuals or images, because he cannot reliably tell which ones are truth and what others are mere mirage.

The lineup of memories and feelings began with a broken boy in the middle of a burning cornfield. It began with frantic concern quickly giving way to anger that was slow to melt but morphed into irritation. _What would he tell Lilian_ , was his thought that day, he would have to explain himself. Everything then receded as he felt an inexplicable desire to see the dying boy dead--perhaps sparing Lionel future inconveniences, perhaps causing more trouble. He would never find out which, because even this feeling was shortlived as instinct took over.

He ended up putting himself in debt, which was really rather unacceptable. Even as he climbed into the truck, he was already thinking about not just repaying the debt and getting out of it, but also how to gain an upper hand in all of this.

There wasn't much he could remember about the drive to the medical center. It could be hours, or mere minutes. He couldn't remember whether there was any conversation being made, pleasantries being exchanged, or whether he correctly remembered being quietly poleaxed, quite an unsettlingly unfamiliar feeling which he didn't really care to have a repeat of.

There was however, a little boy with shocking green eyes staring out of pale face. As pale as his insensate son. At night and in the middle of carnage, the boy looked stark white, even more so against a mop of hair as dark as china ink. The boy was almost translucent and oddly luminescent.

They then took his son off this hands, and some time passed until he saw Lex again, still out of it and surrounded by machines. He might've called Lilian about the incident, or maybe someone else did. There's a lack of any clear memory of her ever keeping vigil by her son's bedside. He did spend some time sitting by Lex's side, but he's not so sure how long it was, and did he sleep a little or did he work a lot? There were some visitors, but they could've been faceless people.

Yet, there's a clear memory about the Kent boy visiting several days after that night, looking oddly fixated on Lex's immobile form for some unfathomable reason. In the sterility of the room, the boy was bright and warm as though he had spent time just soaking in the sun. So full of life, especially next to Lex, that Lionel didn't even register the boy's apparent muteness and strange gestures at first.

The boy had fascinated him, an enigma as intriguing as nothing he had ever seen. Even as he helped draw up adoption papers he was thinking of perhaps telling Lilian that they could be raising a black-haired changeling.

But like most things, memories of that long, frustratingly confusing stretch of time receded. Like cicadas, they began to burrow themselves into the back of his mind, laid dormant, waiting for the time to resurface again. Biding their time patiently.

* * *

 

These days, he is reminded of those old memories very often. Especially since he's now reduced to being laid on his back, with little else to do other than looking out of windows. Looking at a world that marches on without needing him as an active participant.

*****

His days are marked by opening and closing doors, despite trading hospital ones with his own suite in the Plaza. This time it swings open to let his son in. He thinks of the relative irony, a reversal of events that happened many years ago. He wonders idly what Lex will remember years down the line. Despite the alcohol, drugs, and injuries both self-inflicted and otherwise--and Lionel readily admits that he contributed to some of them--Lex never seems to show anything but a perfect recall of things. Maybe Lex is just good at keeping up appearances, or it could be that his mutation runs deeper than originally thought. Perhaps both.

Lex's visits have become more frequent. So, either he is dying or Lex is just escaping.

"I know what you're thinking," Lex says in place of a greeting. "You're not dying". _Unfortunately_. That hangs unsaid between them, but Lionel sees it clearly in Lex's heavy gaze.

*****

He might be old and tethered to a bed. He might never walk again. He might never be able to sit up straight behind a desk anymore, but that doesn't mean he is senile. The only sport he has nowadays is verbal chess with Lex. There's business on television, and things on the newspapers. Sometimes dossiers will cross his castored desk, but mostly he gets news from Lex.

Lex tells him everything he needs to know, and then everything else he doesn't even thought of wanting to know. Clearly, concisely, completely. If he wants, Lionel can waltz back into his office as though he has never left. He likes to delude himself that it's Lex's way to try and curry approval, Lex's way to constantly want to show that he can be thorough and dependable. But he knows that it is Lex's way of telling him that the son no longer needs the father, that the son has learned everything he needs to learn from the old man and now poised for something greater than Lionel can even imagine.

He hears it underneath all of Lex's carefully chosen and precisely delivered words. Sometimes he thinks about calling in his lawyers, so that he can deliver LuthorCorp into Lex's hands finally. But maybe his illness has turned him into a procrastinator, or else he has become repulsively indecisive.

* * *

 

Lionel knows that Lex will never kill him; a sentiment perhaps borne out of some misguided propriety cultivated through his time with the Kent boy. But at least Lex is not above sedating his own father when the irritation becomes too cumbersome.

The nurse never gives him enough, however, so he often floats uselessly along the edge of consciousness for a while, listening to his son run a business empire from a high-backed chair across the room. Orchestrated words now punctuated with rustling papers and sharp scratches of ink on paper, rapidfire typing acts as counterpoint to steady metronomical beeps of Lionel's life monitoring machines.

*****

Surfacing back into consciousness requires effort still. Sloughing off the effects of medication has become a chore. Pushing past the unease cottoning at the back of his throat and the heaviness in his eyes. His hearing is the first one to normalize, and he notes that Lex is no longer alone in the room.

"...don't have to." Lex sounds like he has just completed a long speech, a trace of frustration serving as a punctuation mark.

"I know, but I want to." Lionel recognizes the voice and thinks of cicadas in an off-handed way. "And before you say it, I'm not allowed back at the office until next week at least." The Kent boy, Lionel remembers, is now a reporter. Daily Planet's newest Science and Technology correspondent, he recalls, has a way with words that makes science interestingly accessible to the masses. Apparently in possession of a Lemming's self-preservation, he is also talented and workaholic enough to sometimes work with Lois Lane on some hairraising Pulitzer-bait. Lex worries in private and publicly grumbles that it's Clark's way of getting his nose into Lex's business.

Lionel listens to Lex make a half-hearted objection, low and indecipherable.

"Please?" Lionel doesn't need eyes to imagine the Kent Offensive, a series of well-executed puppy eyes and pouty lips. "After my last assignment and you trying to keep two companies moving at breakneck speed, I think we both deserve this, don't you think?" and everyone in the room knows that Lex will never turn down any offers of spending more time with Kent Junior.

"I doubt we'll be doing much communing, Clark. I'm barely alive as it is. I swear dad is loitering around in bed waiting for me to die where I stand. You know the Japanese has a word for it."

"I can help you with work, that way we can be together. I'll move my desk into your study when we get home tonight."

"What about conflicts of interest?"

"What about them? I thought you said: 'By all means, Clark, help yourself to my secret papers' or have you changed your mind?" Kent punctuates his sentence with a snort and, Lionel bets, a prodigious eye-roll that seems to be the purview of the very young. "Besides, you know I'm only good for research. I'll do all the mind-numbing stuff, and you can use the intel to go forth and decimate, okay?"

A brief hesitation, characteristic of when Lex is contemplating an unrequired heroic sacrifice of the day. Then, "What about... you know..."

"I live with a multi-billionnaire, workaholic CEO. I think I've learned a bit about delegating, even if it's only through osmosis."

"Smartass." There's a sound much like a shuffle, a rustle, then a door creaking. "I'm going to shower, then we're going to feed you, then we'll talk about this redecoration you're talking about earlier."

***

"Hello Mr. Luthor." The Kent boy greets with a singsong-y i-know-you're-awake quality to his voice. Lionel opens his eyes and smiles what he thinks should be suitably predatory.

The boy merely smiles benignly back at him, "Good to see you're looking well, Mr Luthor. I hear you're getting better."

"I can't say I'm touched by your concern," he replies, rearranging himself against the headboard. "But thank you all the same."

"Can't really say I'm concerned about you either," the boy parries audaciously, clearly no longer the lily-livered country boy who postures and blushes at the drop of a hat. "But I do hope you'll stick around long enough for Lex's sake."

Ah, spoken like a boy being raised on a steady diet of milk, corn, and the sanctity of a united family.

"Lex knows the score."

"Of course." No trace of doubt in his voice, just a kind of conviction that is either foolish or brave. "But I think it will do him a world of good if you hurry up and get better."

"I have no intention of dying anytime soon."

There's a pause, the boy cocks his head towards the en-suite bathroom door. The water has stopped running a few moments ago, the boy frowns and looks thoughtful for a while, then returns Lionel's gaze with earnest eyes. "There's no question about it." A slow smile. "I think it's my new life's mission to make sure you live long enough to watch Lex pick LuthorCorp apart."

*****

"Hate to break your lovely conversation, but..." Lex exits the bathroom looking impeccable and ready for another round of fuck-you-worlds.

"But nothing," Kent moves in on the empty half-note of the conversation, effectively blocking Lionel's attempt at getting words in edgewise. "Just saying how great it is that Mr. Luthor will be well enough to return to work soon."

"Can't wait to kick me out, dad?" A tinge of bitterness, though he shouldn't have. Then, "You shouldn't rush yourself, dad. I don't want you to keel over again so soon." Lionel knows his son enough to hear genuine concern lurking beneath equally genuine nonchalance. He can also see the slight relaxing of muscles and read Lex's thought loud and clear as though he's a mindreader. _Fucking finally_.

He has never seen it until now, even though he should've realized it: the toll of trying to nurture two competing companies had on Lex, like a considerate parent trying to balance one's own child and that annoying stepchild. It would've been easy for Lex to quietly tunnel through LuthorCorp in favor of LexCorp especially when Lionel isn't there to parry his move. But Lex never likes it easy. Lionel has eavesdropped on a lot of telephone conversations, bugged enough meetings, and read enough documents to know that Lex always negotiated the best for LuthorCorp, making deals that were nigh on impenetrable, even on contracts that would go into direct competition with LexCorp. Lex has always liked playing chess against himself.

"The AGM," Lionel decides. Galas are too frivolous, quarterly meetings too common. "Sufficient, don't you think?" Ignores Lex's half-hearted attempt at indignation that only lasts a fraction of a second. Lex measures him against his words, and it feels like a long while. Lionel doesn't know what conclusion his son has come up with, except that he turns around to leave. Kent follows him like a hungry, overgrown puppy, Lionel all but forgotten.

The door stays open and Lionel watches Lex leave instructions to the nursing and security staff outside. He then sees the silhouette of his lawyer lurking just beyond the hall. Can't remember when he had summoned the man. Then, he remembers his earlier thought of getting his lawyers to start a transfer of ownership to Lex, and almost chokes himself laughing.

The sound must have traveled, because Lex turns so quickly that Kent has to reach out and keep Lex from greeting the floor headfirst. The nurse takes a step towards the door but Lionel signals them all to stay or go away with an imperious wave of his hand. Even his lawyer sees his gesture; has worked for him long enough to know that he too has been dismissed.

Lionel watch Lex sneak another glance at him, worried for some reason. It's over in a second. Lionel watches his son disappear around the corner. If he's any less of a father, he would just call his lawyer back, go ahead and deny Lex his final triumph. But Lionel thinks that he is benevolent enough to be selfless for once, to bring the final battle to Lex.

The door finally closes with a sharp, firm click. Just him now and his thoughts. Outside his window, Metropolis glitters at night, bright and feels like home. For the first time since falling ill, Lionel feels well again.


End file.
